Very Twisted
by Hawsh
Summary: The final lair events from a slightly different perspective. Some mildly slashy content.


The garrote pulled the young man's neck back even further. An inch more, and his breathing would become impossibly labored; the air would be choked off and ever so slowly, he would die. His aristocratically pale skin was stretched tightly over strained tendons and the veins that stood out and pulsed wildly with fear. But it was his eyes, usually so calm in their knowledge of all being right in the world, that excited the man with the scarred face the most. To see terror and fascination combined in the young man's eyes, well, that almost made everything worth it.

The Opera Ghost leaned in and trailed his hand sensuously down the bared chest of the young Vicomte, his lips so close that they were very nearly touching Raoul's ear. "It's you or the girl," he whispered, his breath hot on the young man's face. "I will have one of you, so make your decision." The young man trembled under his touch, but why? Did the pupils truly just widen, the chest shudder? Was it loathing or something different that inspired these reactions? The face and eyes were too confused to read with any accuracy, unfortunately, but this was not quite the response that one would expect to being presented such an option and to seeing such a hideous countenance up close.

With a final tug on the ruffles of the young man's open shirt, the Phantom turned back toward the girl. She was standing very still, as if by freezing herself she could freeze the scene in front of her. He nearly smiled at her, so seemingly innocent and confused, so unknowing.

At first, it had been all about the girl. Her wide eyes and long, soft hair had enchanted him, and most of all, her voice, that lovely voice that could bring his songs to life, had drawn him inexorably to her; but did not the young man have hair as soft, eyes as wide and expressive, with long, dark lashes besides? As time had gone on and Christine had become more and more difficult, it was not so strange that his attention should drift to the pretty young man with the overdeveloped sense of chivalry, now was it?

The girl had lost the purity that he had wanted to contain and shape to his own design. She had betrayed him and even her voice could not make him forget it, for if having the voice of an angel meant ultimate betrayal, the Phantom could do without possessing it. There were other qualities to enjoy, he thought as he eyed the Vicomte. Even now, the young man did not stand there with a look of repressed horror as Christine was doing now, hoping the decision would be taken away somehow. No, the aristocrat stood pinioned, his neck deliciously bared, his eyes defiant but confused. He was hopelessly outmatched, but still he fought for what he thought he loved. It was perversely touching, really.

Then the girl came toward him, her dress trailing in the water behind her, making it seem as if she floated and had no need of worldly ways of moving. It was ethereal and almost magical, and when she kissed him, there was a moment where he remembered how he had desired this girl with a hopeless, helpless, unanalyzed, malformed and obsessive love. He closed his eyes as he remembered, savoring her taste and her touch, given to him at last.

But as he opened his eyes, he looked over the girl's head and instantly met the stare of the young man. Jealousy flared deep in those beautiful eyes, but over which of them, or both? The girl was drawing back and looking between them with darting, troubled glances. The young man suddenly thrashed against the restraints, his eyes rolling back as he tightened the noose around his own neck with his struggles. The girl stood, again paralyzed, afraid that her ploy had failed.

He knew then that he was fooling himself. The scarred man's eyes flickered back to the Vicomte, who had stilled and whose agonized expression must surely be for the girl, forced to kiss this monster to save her lover, her lover who was helpless to save her. What would either of these young, unblemished lovers want to do with him?

"Go!" he cried, in an agony of self-revulsion. "Go from me!" He turned his deformed face away as both pretty young creatures fled. He did not want to see them leave him here, again alone, a ghost indeed. He staggered out of the water and sank to the ground, covering his face as he fell. Water dripped slowly from his cloak and mournfully spattered on the ground. Had he any tears left to cry, he would have shed them then, for the loss of the chance of he was not even sure what.

Even as he soundlessly wailed, the Opera Ghost knew that he could not linger in aggravated self-pity for long, for now that his sanctuary had been breached, others would follow and they would not be so pretty or so kindly to an aberration like himself. He barely noticed when the girl returned with his ring and left again. It was no more than he expected, no more than he deserved. With a final muffled cry, he blindly stumbled forward.

As he started to rise, a hand gripped his chin and pulled him fully to his feet. Without warning, his mouth was covered by another's, and a slim chest was pressed against his own, while a fast and powerful heartbeat pounded against him. Long, wiry arms wrapped around him and drew him in closer.

His hands, thrown in front of him to ward off an attacker or to catch himself, were trapped in what he realized was a very familiar fall of fabric. Slowly, the Phantom slipped his hands upward, over the ribcage and the chest, to the pale neck. His deft musician's hands cupped the other man's slender neck, his thumbs lightly resting along the thundering pulse. How he had yearned to do this earlier. His fingers gently traced the raw rope burns. A groan, half pain and half pleasure, was muffled in their mouths.

Then, as swiftly as the kiss had begun, it was over, leaving the scarred man to stand wavering in momentary confusion, staring after the slight back of Raoul de Chagny. But, it did not matter what had inspired that kiss; his lips still burned and he knew that the passion had not been faked. He was as certain as he had ever been of anything that there was a promise in that kiss, and it would be redeemed.

With a twisted grin, he left his mask in a prominent place, and vanished into the depths that he knew so well.


End file.
